I do not know whether this book should be opened as one opens a window or as one closes a door. The poems that inhabit it do not ask to be understood: they ask only to be passed through, as one passes through a dimly lit room, recognizing the objects without touching them.I wrote these verses not to explain the world, but to withdraw from it a little. Each poem is a way of delaying the impact of reality, of turning into words what would otherwise remain an indistinct weight in the chest. There is here no system and no promise, only fragments of consciousness - moments in which the soul observes itself while it exists.
AmazonPagina's: 134, Paperback, Independently published
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